Buried Under the Layers
by akisura12
Summary: "I'm not lost," the now rain-soaked little boy stated. "Mummy just forgot to pick me up is all."  Sherlock discovers that he's met John before.  Just a little two  or three?  shot about kid Sherlock and John.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Buried Under the Layers

Author: Akisura12

Summary: "I'm not lost," the now rain-soaked little boy stated. "Mummy just forgot to pick me up is all." Sherlock discovers that he's met John before. Just a little two (or three?) shot about kid Sherlock and John.

Rating: K+, no reason for the plus, I just want to make sure...^^'

Genre: Friendship

Warnings: Nothing through this whole story, really. :)

Disclaimer: Sherlock the TV series in which I am writing from is in no way mine or affiliated with me. Sherlock is property of the BBC, and Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N: Hello and thanks for starting to read my third fanfic! This is going to be a short story, probably only two or three chapters. However my chapters are relatively long so hopefully you can be entertained :). Please R&R if you can, constructive criticism is great, but no flames please.^^

**-Chapter One-**

John Watson had helped many people in his life. Numerous soldiers in Afghanistan sick and injured at the clinic, and children. John had always loved children. He'd always been good with them, and they seemed to like him. He'd babysat several times for the children on the streets he'd lived on. He'd helped numerous lost children find their way home before, as they seemed to deem him to be the most approachable person to plead for help to when lost.

It was one of the reasons that John had become a doctor. He'd liked helping those children. He liked the way they clung to his hand and made him feel important. He loved the feeling of satisfaction when the child was returned home and gave him a hug. He enjoyed knowing that he'd helped the touching reunion of lost child to worried parent. Naturally, he didn't remember all of these children's' names. Most of them melded together in the back of his memory after he grew up and went to Afghanistan. Because after he came back, no children asked him for help. His eyes were colder. ((Small interjection, sorry if that paragraph sounded slightly paedophilic, it was meant in a completely non-creepy way.))

Sometimes something would spike a memory to come back suddenly, making John smile in remembrance of his easier, younger days. It might be something simple and nearly unrelated like last week, when he was walking through the park and saw a fish in the pond. He had smiled gently remembering a child named Billy.

A redheaded, eager little boy who'd lost his mum after getting distracted by the fish in a pond. John had come behind him, surprised at seeing such a young boy, around 4 or so, alone. "Nice fish aren't they?" He'd asked, making sure not to scare the little boy. The ginger had looked eagerly up at him, nodding excitedly. His face had fallen when he noticed his mum was nowhere in sight.

John had kneeled down, gently saying, "Did you get lost?" The child had then burst into tears. Within the hour, John had managed to return the scared boy to his by then equally scared mother. He'd given John a tight hug then, and John had smiled and patted him twice on the head. He never saw Billy again.

Memories came back again today. John was cleaning; going through some of the boxes he'd never unpacked when coming back from Afghanistan, even after moving in with Sherlock. One box was full of cards and drawings he'd received in the past. He'd meant to just organize it, but ended up reading each one.

It was an assortment of the most special cards and drawings he'd gotten. One pile, labelled _'birthdays'_ contained cards dating even back to his first birthday. Cards from his sister Harry, drawn and written in waxy crayon and 'Happy Birthday' messily scrawled on construction paper. Cards from his Granny, who passed away about 25 years ago, and even a card from his Grandad, who passed when John was only one. There was a card from his old girlfriend, Melanie, whom he'd been with for nearly 6 years before a rather sad but civil goodbye. All of these made memories rush back to John like water down a drain, making him sadly happy, smiling.

The next pile was labelled '_Drawings From Kids I_ Babysat'. The last pile was labelled _'Drawings From Kids I Helped Home_.' The rather long labels made John chuckle at himself, and he picked up the pile with the drawings from kids he'd helped home. He started to take off the old, hardened rubber band, but it snapped against John's finger quite suddenly.

John gave a small cry of surprise, and though it hadn't really hurt very much, it'd rather startled him, and he dropped the pile. The drawings scattered on the floor in a messy pile, causing John to curse lightly. He sighed at the mound of drawings in front of him, and started to pick up the paper. As he did, he glanced at each sheet, sometimes recognizing the drawing, sometimes remembering a child's name, sometimes not recognizing the drawing at all.

The pictures were cute, even in their slightly dusty and yellowed state. Pictures of John (he thought), animals, flowers, toys, fairy tale characters and...the labelled geologic layers of a rock? John picked this last drawing up with curiosity and confusion. He laughed, amused. What child drew such scientific models for fun?

Sherlock, probably, John thought amused. What would he be like as a kid? A genius, no doubt. Child prodigy. John closed his eyes and tried to imagine his looks, finding it surprisingly easy. Too easy. He froze and opened his eyes. There was no way...But sure enough, on the bottom right corner of the drawing, written in messy black crayon, was 'Sietific Observaton by Sherlock'.

"Sherlock," John called out shakily. Then, starting to smile like a madman: "_Sherlock_!"

Moments later, a almost panting and annoyed (but slightly concerned) looking Sherlock appeared from the stairs that led to the tiny, dusty attic that John and he kept their junk and such. His face relaxed to an expression of just annoyance when he saw John was fine.

"What _ever_ could you want right now?" He said irritably. "I'm in the middle of an experiment. I'm measuring the way cells of the eye act after one dies by being strangled compared to one after drowning."

"Yes, yes, you can get back to your experiment in a minute," John grinned, trying not to imagine how Sherlock got hold of eyeballs, and held up the crayon drawing for the taller man to see. "Do you remember this?" He asked, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

Sherlock took the paper and stared at it irritably. "Why would I recognise it, I-Oh." He'd noticed his name on the bottom of the paper. And as far as he knew, there weren't very many Sherlocks walking around right now. He moved the paper around a little, starting to shuffle nervously. "Well I...no, I don't remember, but this certainly seems to be something I...drew."

John nodded, still grinning. Sherlock sat down next to John on the poorly carpeted ground and looked at the old piece of paper a little longer. He seemed agitated that he couldn't remember, though not surprised about the lack of memory. John wasn't surprised he didn't remember either. Normal childhood days seemed like something Sherlock had long since deleted. But also because Sherlock had only been 5.

"You drew this and gave it to me, because I found you lost-" John started to explain when Sherlock quickly interjected:

"I don't get lost." Normally John would've been slightly annoyed at Sherlock for this, but to Sherlock's surprise, he laughed. "What," he said irritably, "Do you find that funny?"

"Sorry," John said, still slightly laughing. "It's just that you said the exact same thing to me _that_ day, too."

Sherlock looked embarrassed. He'd never guessed he'd met John when he was younger. But it wasn't unreasonable - though London was a pretty large area, he'd passed possibly millions of people since childhood. Yet the number of people he'd actual _spoken_ to was a lot smaller. Though more talkative as a child, he'd still been socially awkward.

John looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to say something. When he didn't, he started to tell Sherlock of their day together in the end of August, about 30 or so years ago.

A/N: Yep, so there's the first chapter! It was meant to be a one shot, but it ended up being 2:00 in the morning before I knew it and had to go to bed. But you can expect the next chapter to come quite soon. Sorry it was such a long introduction to the scenario, I tend to go on about things for an unnecessarily long time. But thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed. Feedback, though not flames, are greatly appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Sherlock the TV series in which I am writing from is in no way mine or affiliated with me. Sherlock is property of the BBC, and Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N: Alright, so, chapter 2! It ended up being much longer than the first one :) Please R&R if you can, and enjoy!

**-Chapter 2-**

The day was beautiful. It was crisp, but not cold, and the sun spread patches of warm about. There were many birds in the patchless blue sky, flying to warmer climates and readying themselves for the cold days that soon follow. Sixteen-year-old John sat gloomily on a park bench.

His house, which he'd lived in for nearly four years now, currently held rows and piles of large brown boxes. They were moving tomorrow. John hated it. He'd moved several times in his life. He'd always been good at making friends, but he could never keep them because of his dad's frequent job relocation. Four years was the longest he'd ever stayed in one place, and he'd let himself believe that maybe they'd stay there. But no, here he was once again, having to leave.

He sighed and stood, telling himself that there was no reason to mope about it, because there was nothing much he could do about anything. No, he would take one last walk around this beautiful park that he'd enjoyed so much. He'd say goodbye and move on.

For ten minutes he wandered on the paths, staring almost blankly at the scenery and trying to not get upset, but getting upset anyway. It was then that he noticed a little boy with curly, dark brown hair, maybe around four or five, sitting on a stump with a pad of white paper on his lap. He was bent over with intense concentration and seemed to be drawing something. Leaning again the stump was what looked like a violin case. There were no adults around, despite the boys' young age.

John almost left him there, telling himself not to interfere, but curiosity and plain kindness took priority, and he found himself walking over and kneeling next to the stump the child was propped on. The boy looked up, startled. He stared at John for about five seconds before going back to his work.

"Hello there," John said kindly, but got no response. He looked at the paper the boy drew on. A picture of a cracked-open rock was taped in the upper left corner and he seemed to have drawn in black crayon. Scribbles of writing that followed adjacent arrows were labelled with the names of rock stratum. John stared, surprised, at the boy's knowledge. All the names seemed to be correct, if not spelled wrong.

"Is that for school?" John asked gently. The boy shook his head no, but gave John nothing else. "Are you lost?"

At this the boy quickly looked up. His eyes were a pale blue, John saw, and his skin was also quite pale. He seemed hesitant to say anything for a moment, then, "I don't get lost."

John laughed at this, and the boy looked annoyed. "I don't," he insisted. "Mycroft taught me all the-" He stopped talking and looked back down at his work.

"Something the matter?" John asked, confused as to why the boy had stopped talking. He mumbled something in return, but John couldn't understand. "Sorry, come again?"

"Mummy says don't talk to strangers," he mumbled, a bit more audibly.

John thought for a moment, wondering how he could tell the boy that he wasn't a bad person without teaching him it was okay to trust strangers. "I'm all right," he said finally. "My dad's with the police."

The boy looked back up, and his eyes had widened. "_Really_?" He asked eagerly.

John nodded. "Really. See here?" He held a picture that he kept in his pocket of him, Harry, and his father in uniform.

The boy nodded quickly. "Okay then," he said. He looked at the picture again. "Who's the girl?" He asked, pointing at Harry.

"That's my sister, Harry," John said.

"Harry's a boy name."

John looked slightly surprised at the blunt child for a moment before, "It's short for Harriet."

"Oh," was all that the boy said in return, and it seemed as if he'd already lost interest in John.

"What's your name?" John asked.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said. "I'm five and a half now."

John smiled. Children always seemed eager to say their age, especially if a half was involved. "Well then, I'm John," he said warmly. "Ah, do you know where your mum is?" At this it started to drizzle a bit. John was surprised, as it had been such a nice day. But it was alright. It wasn't very cold rain.

"No," Sherlock said, not at all bothered by the sudden weather change. "…I knew that was going to happen."

"That what would happen?" John asked.

"That is was going to rain," he said simply.

John smiled. "I see," he answered, not really believing but not bothering to argue. The rain started to come down a bit harder, and John wished he had worn a warmer jacket. However Sherlock wasn't wearing anything but a pair of shorts, sandals, and a stained t-shirt, so John was better off than him at least.

"Are you cold?" He asked.

"No. I don't get cold."

John smiled. "Seems like you don't get a lot of things," he said. Sherlock shook his head.

"I get, I mean, I _know_, lots of stuff. Mycroft teaches me."

"And who is Mycroft?" John asked, squinting his eyes and looking up at the sky.

"My big brother," Sherlock said, and it seemed his eyes grew slightly more excited. "He's really smart, and he knows _everything_." He said the last bit finally and proudly, as there was no arguing that Mycroft was, in fact, the smartest person in the world.

John nodded, and looked around again. "Are you sure you aren't lost?" He asked, for still no adult had appeared.

"I'm not lost," the now rain-soaked little boy stated. "Mummy just forgot to pick me up is all."

"She forgot?" John asked. "Where were you?"

"My violin lesson. Mycroft had a school match or, or something, and Mummy forgot to tell Daddy that he had to pick me up. So I came here to do drawing," he said quickly.

"Well, I'm sure Mummy and Daddy are worried about you by now, why don't we get you home?" John asked, smiling. Sherlock did not smile back. In fact, to John's surprise, his face seemed to fall. "What's the matter?" John asked.

Sherlock hesitated, before saying, "I have to call my cousin Seth when I get home. Mummy said I have to say sorry to him before I get supper, because I was bad and hit him with a stick."

John nodded, thinking it was slightly funny, but managed to look serious. "Why'd you hit him?"

"He called me...He called me some mean names..." Sherlock mumbled, trailing off. He looked at his hands nervously before quickly launching into what happened. "See, I told Seth that his mother must've made spaghetti last night and he didn't believe me when I told _him_ someone didn't tell me, and that I just figured it out. And then he told me to prove it but I didn't know how and he called me a liar and a prat and that I was just stupid, so I hit him." Sherlock's face seemed upset, like he might cry now. Or maybe he already was, but the rain, which was stopping now, hid any tears that might have been.

"Why didn't you tell your mum that?" John asked softly.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Because...because she was tired, and I, I didn't want to bother her." At this Sherlock did start to cry a little, not full out, but his breath hitched.

John leaned down so his face was level with Sherlock's and patted him on the head. "I'm sure if you tell your mum that, she'll understand," he said kindly. Sherlock continued to sniffle but nodded silently.

John stood and held out his hand to the boy. "Now, how about we leave?" He said. "Mummy is very probably worried about you." He leaned over and took the boy's violin case by the handle.

Sherlock nodded again and took John's hand, but didn't move from the stump. "What's the matter?" John asked patiently.

"I...when I came out of my lesson and Mummy forgot me...I was upset and ran and fell and now I can't stand," came the whimpered response.

John looked at Sherlock's ankles, surprised. Yet sure enough, one had swelled red and larger than the other. John became slightly annoyed at himself for not noticing, but was more alarmed that the boy hadn't acted like he was in pain at all. "You twisted your ankle? Why didn't you say?"

"I made myself forget it hurt until now," he muttered weakly. _Forget?_ John thought worriedly. _Who can _do_ that?_ However he quickly stopped wondering about it when Sherlock's eyes started to water again. "It really hurts now," he half-moaned.

"Alright, I'll carry you then," John said, smiling so the boy knew it was okay. He leaned down and picked the small child up. John expected that carrying the child and the violin at the same time would've been rather difficult, but he found that while Sherlock was long-legged, he was extremely light.

"So, Sherlock," John asked as they walked towards the park exit. "Where do you live?"

"Two-Oh-One Pen-," he stopped, John realized, in pain. "Penny Street," he finished a moment later, his voice shaky. Luckily for John, it was quite close to here, and John knew precisely what route to take.

"Alright Sherlock, you're being very brave," John said as they walked, trying to distract the boy by talking. "Can you tell me...What's your _favourite_ colour?"

"Blue," came the muffled response, as Sherlock had buried his head in John's shoulder. "I like blue like Mycroft."

John smiled, "Seems like you like your brother a lot, don't you Sherlock?"

"Mmhm, he teaches me everything," Sherlock said. "Stuff that the teachers don't even know."

John snorted lightly, but he thought it cute that Sherlock looked up to his brother so much. "Who're your best friends?" John asked next.

"I don't have any friends," Sherlock answered. John was surprised, mostly because Sherlock had stated so with absolutely no remorse or discomfort in his voice. "…But can you be my friend?" He asked hesitantly. "You listened to me and believed me and you're nice and not dumb."

"Of course we can be," John said, glad to become what was apparently the boy's only friend.

They were nearly at Sherlock's house, but John still had time for another question. "What do you want to be when you grow up?" He asked.

Sherlock thought only for a second before replying, "I'm going to work for Mycroft." John smiled again, before climbing the steps to Sherlock's house.

"We're there, Sherlock," he said softly. Sherlock buried his head in John's shoulder again as John knocked. Immediately a woman who looked like she'd be Sherlock's mother opened the door. She looked like she'd been crying. When she saw Sherlock in John's arms she burst into tears.

"Oh, Sherlock! Dear, Sherlock's home!" She quickly held Sherlock in her arms after John passed the wet child to her. A tall man came up behind her, also looking relieved.

"Thank you so much," he said to John. "Thank you for bringing him home." He shook John's hand vigorously.

John shook back, smiling. "Yes, it was fine, he's a wonderful kid," he said honestly. "But, um, you should know," he moved a bit away from Sherlock and his mum, "You should know, he told me he only hit his cousin with the stick because he was calling him some very mean names."

Mr. Holmes nodded. "Thank you," he said again, and moved back next to his crying wife and Sherlock.

"Mrs. Holmes," John started, "It seems Sherlock was running and fell. I think he twisted his ankle, so you might think about bringing him to get it checked out."

The woman nodded rapidly, "Yes, yes of course, oh thank you, _thank you so much_ for bringing my baby back home."

"Can John babysit me now?" Sherlock asked his mum innocently. "I like him better than Marie, he believes me and doesn't talk to me like I'm stupid." His mother looked at John questioningly.

John sighed, looking at Sherlock in his mum's arms. "I - I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I'm moving tomorrow. So I can't be your babysitter."

Sherlock whimpered, "But, but you said we were _friends_!"

"Just because I'm leaving doesn't mean we can't be friends," John explained kindly. "We might not be able to see each other, but we're still friends." He smiled and could tell that while Sherlock wasn't happy about it, he understood.

"Can we be best friends if I see you again?" he asked quietly. John smiled sadly, knowing he'd probably never meet the cute little boy ever again, but agreed anyways.

"Of course we can," he said.

"_Promise?_"

"I promise."

Sherlock nodded and held out his hand to John. In it was the drawing of the rock, soggy and crumpled but whole. He hadn't realized that Sherlock had been holding it the whole time. The crayon must have been left on the stump. "Here," he said. "So you don't forget. It has my name on it so you can't."

John took it, "Okay Sherlock."

After more thank-you's and hugs to John on Mrs. Holmes' part, John was ready to go. Sherlock was now sitting on his family's couch with his legged propped up and topped with ice. John walked over and smiled down at him, patting his head one last time. "Good bye, Sherlock. Until we meet again."

Sherlock nodded. "Right. Bye John," was the saddened but strong response. John waved on his way out and didn't look back.

He was somewhat proud of himself today. He'd helped a child find his way home, and had said goodbye. When he had told Sherlock goodbye for the last time, John hadn't just been talking to him. In his mind, he'd said goodbye to everything in this town. He could move on now. But he wouldn't forget it.

A/N: That's basically the end, thanks for reading! There'll be a very short last chapter set in present day. As for Sherlock's spelling errors, I think of him as a kid who knows all the facts, but believes spelling doesn't matter as long as it makes sense and is spoken grammatically correct. And the paper, crayon and photo, they didn't just appear. In violin cases, there's usually a little compartment on the top lid to keep things like resin and a tuner or other. That's where he kept them. :) Hope you enjoyed! Thanks to my wonderful reviewers, Vivified-Plums, songstress42, PearlyWhirly, XMillieX and mustangwoman and everybody who subsribed/favourited/just plain read and enjoyed this story^^.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Sherlock the TV series in which I am writing from is in no way mine or affiliated with me. Sherlock is property of the BBC, and Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N: Alright, here we are at the end! Think of it more like an epilogue though, because it's not very long and bad.^^' Thanks to all the favourites and subscriptions, and of course my kind reviewers, 98Shaddowolff98, kbchick, mustangwoman, BellaDonna24, FlaviusD, PearlyWhirly and one anonymous reviewer. :D

-Chapter Three-

John laughed at the nervous look on Sherlock's face. "You sure were cute back then!" He grinned.

"I-Alright," he said, now slightly remembering that day, but just barely. "But you didn't remember," he argued accusingly.

"Well, after med school, Afghanistan and nearly dying, people tend to forget these sorts of things," John said, his tone jokingly offended. "Not to mention it was ages ago."

"I remember things from ages ago," Sherlock muttered.

"Well yeah, but you're you. Besides, I helped lots of kids in my life, and I've moved lots of times too. So it's only natural I forget. And I didn't actually forget you, I forgot your name." John lips grew into a slightly taunting grin. "You sure liked Mycroft back then though."

"I - shut up!" Sherlock almost-yelled, blushing furiously. "He wasn't as bad back then. And I had to live with him and all, so I just..."

John nodded, "Mmhm, right," he said. "And the only reason you're not like that now is sibling rivalry." Sherlock made a sound of protest before John loudly continued, "So, your cousin Seth called you a prat huh? Bet you annoyed the crap out of him." John chuckled.

"I didn't do anything. He's the prat, he still is!" Sherlock insisted. "You know you were an awful lot nicer to me back then."

"Yeah well, you're not four or five or whatever anymore. And you actually didn't think I was an idiot yet either."

"Five and a half..."Sherlock muttered under his breath, making John laugh at him again.

"Though...It seems like out promise came true." John said, smiling.

"Well yes, I...I mean besides you completely forgetting me until now, yes, yes I suppose we did," Sherlock said, looking slightly embarrassed but keeping completely calm. The awkward pause of silence was broken by Mrs. Hudson calling up,

"Boys, I've made tea, if you're interested in any!" John stood and glanced at Sherlock, still slightly blushing.

"We, I suppose we should go down. Before it gets cold and all." He started down the stairs before Sherlock stopped him.

"John, you were wrong about something else in that story," he said, his voice back to monotone. But it still managed to seem thoughtful.

"What was that?" John asked.

"...About me not thinking you were an idiot yet."

John snorted. "So you even thought I was stupid then? Wow, Sherlock, thanks."

"No, I meant..." Sherlock looked down at the drawing he was still clutching. "I meant, I didn't ever think you were an idiot. Not then or now. Stupid yes, but everybody else. Never an idiot. They're quite different."

John's face re-flushed instantly. "Really? I mean...Yes, well...thanks." He stuttered, and smiling to himself, walked down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's tea with Sherlock following behind.

A/N: Okay, sorry for the short not very funny ending^_^'. But it was really just a wrap-up. Thank you so much to all the kind people who've read this story and especially those of you who gave me your kind words of encouragement. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! :)

On a side not, I need some help. I wanted to go back and edit some of my stories just a little, spelling errors and such. However could somebody please tell me: When you edit [replace] a chapter, do the reviews go away? It'd be great if somebody could tell me, thanks!


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